Wait.
See the quiet core within the storm.
Lightning animates the air in forked display,
but not here.
Thunder bombs and houses quake,
but not here.
Fire and hail reign,
but not here.
For a moment — count the breaths —
gray emptiness, stained by deep sea green,
occludes while the dead eye gorges.

The “eye” we say,
not “heart” or “mouth” or “locus” of a storm
as though we speak from ancient memory
when gods of Earth bent enraged to right us
from our misbehavior, their void,
uncaring eye comprehending all. Wait.